


Objects in the Mirror

by collie



Series: Me and My Shadow [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Can You Write a Fusion Fic That Takes Place in its Own Fandom Universe?, Consent Issues, Doppelganger, Dreams vs. Reality, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mental Instability, Parallels 3B, Stilinski Twins, Takes Place During 3B, This Could Be That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Stiles thinks he can actually see the crack in his own brain. It looks like a door most of the time, but no light ever shines through. He sees things in mirrors most of all. But then he wakes up and it's only been a few weeks since the nematon. Since his sacrifice. Since his brain broke. Stiles wakes up Scott is terrified of himself, Allison is being haunted, and Derek is still gone. Derek never came back. None of it ever-</p><p>Stiles wakes up, and it's just barely quick enough to catch a glimpse of his brother walking through the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Objects in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been planning more twin fic in this universe ever since I heard what was going to happen to Stiles in 3B. It seemed like the perfect way to bring Stu back. I hadn't planned on writing any _today_ , however, but [then this showed up on my dash](http://galaxied.tumblr.com/post/73858818728) and, well. We can't help what inspires us ~~boys kissing~~. (´‿`✿)
> 
> I like the idea of paralleling Stiles on the show with Stiles in this story. Consider everything that happened in 'You Have to Start Over (at the End)' and 'You Walked in Just Like Smoke' to still be completely canon for my Stiles. Maybe he's just been crazy the whole time. Maybe he doesn't _really_ know what happened to him. (✿◠‿◠)
> 
> No direct 3B spoilers, but it's still spoilery if you haven't seen 3B.

Stiles's world is nothing but a narrow pinprick. The bathroom is small and white, and he knows that if he opens the door, all he'll see is darkness. Darkness and a vast star-field that he knows isn't real, but he's not going to chance it. The thought brings him a strange, sick comfort, and a visceral, base terror that grabs at his spine with an icy hand and drags him around against his will.

He's lost so much time. He's made up so many things in his own head. Dreams and nightmares, layers upon layers. Days and weeks and months that never existed. That haven't existed yet. That might never. Or maybe they're just portents of what's to come.

Sometimes he thinks he can actually see the crack in his own brain. It looks like a door most of the time, but no light ever shines through. It's not a safe door, it's not an escape or a way out. It just leads deeper in. It just leads to more darkness.

He sees things in the mirrors most of all. Allison tells him that she sees herself, sometimes. Out of the corner of her eye. Stiles never tells her what he sees. He's too scared to tell them that he's seeing himself again because it makes him feel so weak. So weak, after all he went through to get rid of–

But then he wakes up and it's only been a few weeks since the nematon. Since his sacrifice. Since his brain broke. Stiles wakes up Scott is terrified of himself, Allison is being haunted, and Derek is still gone. Derek never came back. None of it ever-

Stiles wakes up, and it's just barely quick enough to catch a glimpse of his brother walking through the door.

 

When Stiles stares at himself in the mirror, he can't tell if he's asleep or awake.

“So, on a scale of one to ten,” Stuart asks, leaning forward on his hands that are resting on the bathroom counter. “How often do you stare at yourself in the mirror while jerking off these days? You know, pretending it's me.” His eyes are dark and bottomless, like a bird's. Shiny and predatory.

Stiles chokes on his toothbrush and lets it slip from shaking fingers. It clatters into the sink. The white noise from the water rushing out of the faucet hides his sharp intake of breath. He spits out the minty foam in his mouth before he chokes on it, eyes wide as he stares down at the swirling water.

He wonders, if he lets out the scream that's coiled tight around his heart and settled heavy in his chest, would this be his last chance?

Meds. Meds. Hospital. Therapy. More meds. Isolation.

Isolation.

_Does it matter? Am I even real right now? Is any of this?_

He swallows down a whimper and grabs either side of the bathroom counter, dropping his head at the sound of Stuart's soft chuckle. It's sympathetic the same way Sweet 'n Low tastes like sugar. Fake and bitter and too cloying.

“You're not real,” Stiles whispers. He wants to laugh, suddenly, because even he can hear the panic edging his voice. The tremor. Of course Stuart's not real. _He might be real won't be real can't be real has never ever been–_

“Rude, Nim, you know I'm real,” Stuart says, his voice syrupy and sharp. “Well, okay, not _really_ real. Not 'when a man loves a woman, sperm plus egg equals baby' real. But I _am_ here.”

“No,” Stiles breathes. The bathroom walls seem to constrict around him. His moist palms slip a bit against the sink. “No, no, nonono...” He's suddenly sweating all over, and his throat and chest feel tight, like's been running too fast. His muscles lock and he can't move; all he can do is stare at himself in the mirror.

Stuart clears his throat like he's getting ready for a scene. He taps on the mirror to get Stiles's attention. “Is this thing on?” he asks, his mouth sliding into an easy, charming grin. “Okay, so what's the difference between an onion and a hooker?” he asks, waiting for Stiles to re-focus. "I've never cried while chopping up a hooker." Stiles balks as Stuart presses his lips together, his entire face tightening as he splutters. He knows the doppelganger is trying not to laugh at his own stupidly offensive joke, because he said it for Stiles's sake. He said it to make Stiles more comfortable; to break the tension.

So Stiles does. He laughs. He laughs because if he doesn't, he might start screaming or crying. He might punch the mirror, bash his head open against the wall, or drown himself in the toilet. The hysteria bubbles out and his too-loud, shrill laugh echoes in the small room. He lowers himself down into a crouch in front of the sink, eyes squeezed shut tight. He presses his forehead against the cool edge of the counter, hands gripping at the edge of the sink like a lifeline. His laugh ends just as abruptly as it began, white noise filling his ears again.

“I knew you'd laugh at that," Stuart says. Stiles can't see, but he can practically _feel_ Stuart smirking as he speaks. “You're so predictable, Nim.”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers as he slowly straightens back up to stand, despite feeling like he weighs about seven-hundred pounds. “Yeah, I guess.” When he forces himself to open his eyes again, he see himself staring back. But Stiles knows the difference. Predictable, yeah. Because evil doppelgangers are like potato chips; can't eat just one.

Stiles snorts softly and Stuart rolls his eyes, his smile fond. But behind that smile are a row of shark's teeth, Stiles just knows it. He knows it and he shivers, feeling cold sick curl in his stomach. He imagines sharks swimming through the dark star-field. 

“You didn't answer my question,” Stuart says. “Do you think about me when you jerk off?”

Stiles can feel eyes on him as he reaches to collect his toothbrush out of the sink. His fingers tremble as he picks it up, his other hand reaching to turn off the faucet. A soft tutting sound stops him. “Keep the water on. You don't want dad to hear you talking to me, right?”

“Talking to myself...” Stiles mutters.

“White noise is good noise.”

“Where are your glasses?” Stiles asks suddenly. He's having a hard time looking at Stuart, because every time his mirror-image speaks without his consent, Stiles feels like he's going to throw up. Like he should just buy a house in Uncanny Valley and live there, forever.

“I'm not real, dumbass,” Stuart says, pressing his hands to either side of the mirror and leaning in a bit, suddenly jerking closer like a 3D image. “I'm just you this time.”

The image in the mirror flashes quick, like a film edit. Like a misplaced frame in a slide-show. Stiles with blood on his face, his mouth, his hands. Blood and gore up to his wrists, like he tore someone apart. Blood on his chin, smeared across his jaw, on his lips. Like he tore someone apart and _ate them_.

Stiles jerks back away from the mirror as he loses his breath, lips parting around a hard, drowning breath. He throws his hands up in front of his face, palms out, like he's defending himself from some impeding attack.

“That's not me,” he gasps, before making tight fists and pounding them hard against his forehead a few times. “That's not–” he grits his teeth until he tastes powder. “It's _not_.”

“It is you,” Stuart says softly. “It's _in_ you.” Stiles can hear him, _feel_ him, right there. Right next to him. He throws an arm out to his right but it swings through still air. He winces and lets out a soft, desperate sound of pain as his bony wrist connects with the wall.

Of course it does. Because Stiles is alone.

Suddenly there's a knock on the door, and Stiles almost passes out with the force it takes him not to scream. His hands fly up to cover his own mouth, and he tastes blood as he muffles the sound of his own voice. His lip throbs where a tooth cuts it.

“Everything okay in there?” The sheriff's voice floats in through the door. Stiles's wide eyes dart down to make sure it's locked, which it is. He mentally scrambles for a lie. “You've been in there for awhile, kiddo.” The sheriff speaks again, his tone worried.

“Yeah, I'm fine dad,” Stuart casually calls out from the wrong side of the mirror. “Sorry, I zoned out. I'll be down in a sec.” Stiles's eyes widen and his knees buckle, and the only thing keeping him upright is the gravity of the bathroom counter. His stomach seizes up and he tastes bile in his throat. He clenches his jaw and glares so hard at Stuart, he feels a headache fogging the edges of his brain. Stuart stares back at Stiles from the mirror. Calm. Amused. Completely in control.

“Okay.” Stiles can hear the smile in the sheriff's voice. The relief. “I toasted some Eggos, so hurry up before they get cold.”

“You got it,” Stuart chimes, smirking as Stiles goes ashen.

_it's not real it's not real it's not real he is real it's not real_

The floor beneath Stiles tilts a bit. He doesn't fight it. He can actually _see_ the fuzzy black edge his vision as his back hits the wall. He slides down to the floor, not really passing out... but close. He fights it. He can't let himself go unconscious. He can't let himself get sucked in deeper.

“I'm sleeping,” he whispers to himself, voice thick with too much spit. With emotions choked to death; numbed and buried under a mountain of pills. “I'm sleeping, I'm sleeping, I'm sleeping–” He folds his knees up to his chest and grabs his shins, squeezing at his own legs. Teeth clack together, and he hisses sharply in pain as he slams his forehead down against his knees. “Wake _up_!”

You don't actually see stars, it's just entoptic phenomenon. It's not real light, just an image created by the brain. Maybe that's what Stuart is. An optical illusion. An image burned into his brain.

“You wish, bro,” Stuart says off to Stiles's right.

Stiles has never felt so lost and completely fucking insane as he does the moment he feels a bony, bare toe nudge him in the thigh. As he kicks and pushes and throws himself across the bathroom floor, he thinks about a video he saw on YouTube once. A cat arching its back and literally flinging itself away from something it was afraid of. He sort of feels like that cat right now.

“Jesus, don't shit your pants, okay?” Stuart says with quiet amusement as he plants his bare feet on either side of Stiles's thighs. Stiles balls his hands up, digging his fingernails into his palms before shoving them hard against his eyes, rubbing until he sees the lights again. Entoptic fucking phenomenon. False light.

Hallucinations. Seeing shit that isn't really there.

“Psst, Nim,” Stuart whispers, and Stiles has no idea why he lowers his hands. Why he opens his eyes. But when he does, and he watches Stuart tap the side of his nose before pointing back at him with a smile, it doesn't help.

“You're not really real,” Stiles croaks. He feels pathetic and he knows he probably looks it. He thinks he's crying, but it might just be sweat. Or it could be all of the above. He tastes blood, too. It cheers him up a bit, strangely. At least he's still real enough to bleed.

“Nope,” Stuart says with a slight shrug. He shuffles in closer to Stiles, still crouching over his thighs. “But that's never stopped us before, right?” Stuart's soft smile lingers. He leans in and presses a warm kiss to his brother's forehead, and then one to his lips. Chaste.

“How did dad hear you?” Stiles whispers, his brow knitting together as he meets Stuart's easy gaze. His twin's eyes are warmer here, on this side. Stiles's eyes are still wet, lashes clumped together. “How–”

“Maybe he didn't,” Stuart shrugs again. “Maybe he just heard _you_.”

“But I didn't–”

Stuart scoffs. “What the hell gives you the authority to be sure of _anything_ right now, Nim?”

Stiles's lips part in a soft, wet sound. For a moment all he can hear is his blood rushing and his heart beating. For a moment he thinks he's falling into another panic attack. For a moment he honestly considers drowning himself in the toilet as a viable option.

The lips that press to his pull him back to whatever reality this is. The devastatingly familiar taste of his brother's mouth snaps Stiles's eyes open. The comforting nudge of lips against his trickle a warmth over his skin, down his spine. Stiles's hands reach out and grab at Stuart's shirt as his brother tongues into his mouth, breathing into him, curling and teasing his tongue against Stiles's.

Stiles's eyelids flutter a few times as his world steadies itself. He even smiles a little, weakly, as Stuart chuckles and licks fully at his mouth. At his lower lip. At the blood.

"Tau-" Stiles whispers with a desperate hopefulness. "Help me."

“Don't worry, bro,” Stuart says, the sound his voice forcing Stiles to blink too hard a few times. “I'll be around when you need me.” Stuart shark-smiles and stands, offering Stiles both of his hands. Just as Stiles's whole world bottoms out again, Stuart hauls him back up to his feet.

Just like he always does.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://galaxied.tumblr.com/) . [twitter](https://twitter.com/galaxied) . [policy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/profile)


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